More Than Just A Name
by Chuckney
Summary: Scarlet. The silken petals laughed and shook in his hands. He laid them down.As the Fool writes a message and prepares to put on a show for a village, words are called to his mind and each brings their own reflection. [spoilers 2.09][oneshot]


**This was just an odd idea for a structure that struck me about a week ago and after outlining that, I just wrote in the gaps. It's 18 connected almost-drabbles concerning our friend the Fool. Admittedly, a good deal of them are a bit over 100 words but concise just isn't my thing, and I had too many things I wanted to put in. Give it a read, and then donnez vous opinions, s'il vous plaît!

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**Scarlet. The silken petals laughed and shook in his hands. He laid them down. Azure. Like armfuls of sky, the cornflowers fell into the deep grass of the hillside. Saffron. He worked quickly, shaping the pile of cowslips before turning his attention to the bindweed and pondlillies. Ivory. Under his deft hands the floral masses took shape. They were cheerily brash, shouting his arrival in stride-long letters from the observable hillside, and already people were drawing near; curious, sullen or delighted by turn. Gaudy letters took shape as the crowd's murmur grew on his back. 

Jest. His method for the winning of bread, the winner of favour. Often, in the haughty halls of rich men, it was the latter he was looking to gain rather than money. Gold held good value, but sometimes wise connections could get you further – although sometimes the looks on the faces of the most insufferable when he insulted them were worth forsaking all other reward. It was never as good as what he was preparing for, now, though. He was about to jest for the people, to dance fun amongst the villagers for payment of crusts and smiles. He cared not how little they could afford for him. Once again, he found the latter a richer earning by far. But sadly a belly wasn't filled nor a tavern room paid for with children's laughter alone.

Observance. Useful beyond belief in his work. The tiniest movements, the looks in their eyes they didn't know were revealing so much about them: his audience told him what they wanted, and he delivered. And not just in his performance were his eyes sharp and quick as daggers, cutting through night's shadow or falsehood alike. If you knew what you were looking for, people were easily read by his quick glance. He saw that which they tried to hide, that which they didn't know they were thinking and feeling. Smiling, he laid down more petals; the last thing was by far the most fun to behold.

Honesty. Not always the best choice, a clever man knew. There were some tight scrapes honesty didn't get you out of, times when if honest work couldn't make ends meet less honourable deeds procured necessities. He didn't take pleasure in lying, except perhaps to the sneering lords or the brutish peoples of the world, and when he had to borrow he borrowed from those who would not feel the loss so greatly as others – as decent a rogue as you could hope to meet. To the good, he did not lie; rather, when the truth wasn't fit, he spoke in mists and riddles that twisted vagueness instead of untruth. Not technically a falsehood.

Nomad. Wandering was his business now; pulled this way and that by the currents of demand or his own butterfly fancy. When he was younger, he had sometimes missed the village of his roots, but as time flowed on the feeling had faded. Family, those he cared for, were important; but for each relation, each stability offered back home there were ten friends, ten adventures on the road. And as the years had gone on he had come to realise that, truly, he had never left: each grubby tavern, town, forest or lowly den could be his home, if he so chose. He wandered through homeland.

Alliteration. To make more memorable. Just one of the tricks he had picked up on his travels, one of the friends to aid him on his way. Language was a powerful tool… or a powerful weapon. Word could spread like fire through straw, could be the sharp swords themselves or the silk drapes concealing them. Carefully chosen phrases could convince or persuade men with or without their realising, one breath to open a lock, a door, and heart. All of which he'd had to do plenty of in his time: not all humans were as reliably benign as his friend, the verse.

Theatre. He scorned that word for special built buildings, so stifling and cold, with the watchers penned back. Few knew it, but the whole land was a stage, with an audience wandering freely on it for him to interact with as he entertained. The acting, the jesting need never stop. Even in the near-empty taverns, with the usual crowds home dribbling sleep; if a lone barmaid swept the floor then she was his audience, and it was his job to make her smile. Every moment of every day he was an actor, acting the jester that was himself.

Happiness. Carrying it with him in the pockets and bells of those lurid clothes, he had never known a lighter or better burden. It lingered in the towns and villages behind him on his travels like a slow-burning, resilient sunset; it chivvied the air and danced in on the breeze to the next destination, setting a tingle of excitement on their expectant skins. To be able to make people happy… his heart soared just to think of it. Who wouldn't want to dance through life in a whirl of frolicsome adventure, where fun times were abundant and dark times quickly forgotten, and knew you were doing good in the world? Sometimes he thought he must be the happiest man alive.

Odyssey. Then again, he hadn't always been so joyous. Peril and suspicion had dogged him like a bad copper coin when he had first set out, green as grass, all those summers ago. His rosy vision had been quickly shattered by the booing and beatings, the hard earth beds, the groans of stomach, but it was the mistrustful glares of strangers that had pierced him deepest. And through the seasons the school of Experience had taught him, until the traveller walked and slept in contentment. There was a destination, he was sure, though its name slumbered in treeroots and sang in the stars: the place he was heading for was there for him to find by a path of his own choosing, and he would recognise it when, or if, he got there. For the present, he was satisfied to learn from his journey, to gain wisdom and compassion, and let his bourn find him.

Name. People often seemed to forget how important, how revealing they could be. A name was a badge of honour, a tag for others to recognise you by; one's miniscule but steely anchor in the fast-flowing depths of time and distance. Few people knew how lost, how broken they would be without their name to remind them of who they were. Whereas he went by many names. Sailing as he chose, he flitted between many berths and ports, lived in delight at keeping such a secret from the rest of the world. He remained whole and happy of mind, himself anchored on himself, otherwise free to roam.

Reality. Often cold, hungry, unloving. For the most part, inescapable, too, which was why people turned to alcohol: for just a few hours of dozy release from life. But that was not the answer. He had watched his father run away with the bottle every night, then stagger home and push reality hard into his mother's arms, his brother's stomach, his own head. So he offered an alternate route to the villagers and townsfolk: let go the burdens for an hour or so, make merry, pay if you could. Harsh existence couldn't be escaped, he'd learned, but he could make it more bearable.

Imagination. He possessed more of it than most, he knew: carried it in great mass, in huge tanks that swirled and sloshed, throwing sparkle into his eyes and splashing stars upon the path he strove to tread. And although the track went to places his body could not follow, seeing everything differently was good for devising new illusions and tricks. His audience, too, their imaginations played a part: tugged at the rational knowledge that told them cooked birds did not come back to life and whispered 'What if… what if…' And so his following grew.

Disappear. It was strange how a man dressed up with gaudy rags and bells, whose slight figure filled a whole room with personality, could become invisible. Granted, he didn't wear the jester's garb when he wanted to vanish, but the larger-than-life presence he was commissioned for could be even more distinctive. When he began, he was a nondescript traveller, invisible. After some years he was a jovial manipulator and entertainer, cocksure and headstrong. A good deal cleverer than before, but little wiser, and he had had to learn through the muggings and the unfounded accusations pinned on an easy target and the years how to deflect attention, too; how to be captivating or unseen as he chose. Like the doves and scarves of his tricks, he could disappear.

Deceive. For the most part, it was innocent deception; tricks and pranks. He loved to see how the children accepted each new wonder with absolute and unshakeable belief in his ability to conjure and banish. Often, he wondered how it would feel to return to that state of impenetrable surety in the truth of good magicke. But the very fact he could think that meant he could never go back. More sophisticated techniques came in useful for getting in (or out) of places you weren't supposed to be in, but he hadn't always used his powers on cronies and brutes. He felt ashamed when he remembered the unsuspecting folk he had not tricked, but tricked out of things… But he was doing good, now, atoning.

Life. He loved life, and for the most part mourned its parting and was loathe to take it himself, but Necessity cracked a cruel whip and sometimes drove him down paths he didn't want to take. He wasn't a religious man – he didn't know why he was there. But the scent of grass stirring in the breeze, the frosty air of an early Spring morning, the rippling sound of laughter… there was so much to live for. He didn't want to die. Wasn't it better to breathe the sweet air in guilt, to entertain the masses and help the good people in guilt, than to be dead with no guilt and no joy? Put on a brave face, put on a jewelled face, you had no choice, the show must go on.

Everything. Quite often he felt that he had everything. Health and happiness. A trade, a nice earner of one at that. Intellect and opportunity plenty to exercise it. A world to roam in, imbeciles to irk, people to please and heroes to help. Friends, too; friends and jovial acquaintances in their scores. He hadn't found love, yet, though; hadn't had the chance. Each town or village was only home for a week or so, then the restless wind would call again and he was drawn inexorably onward in his search for who knew what. He wanted none of the stability that lent itself to love. It would have to catch him first.

Petals of every shape and size winked at him as he stood up, admiring his own handiwork. With the familiar but still exciting rush that heralded the start of a performance, he read the words spelt in big florid cheeriness on the hillside, calling the watchers in.

JOHNATHON RIDDLE

It was the inch of truth hidden in a mile of false bunting. The diamond rattling along with glass bead brethren. So loud it could no be heard, so obvious it was not seen by anyone. Of all the aliases, all the pseudonyms – Merry Stephen, Mark the Many-Coloured, Sharp-tongue, Painted Roderick, Simon Soothsayer, the Joker, the Jester, the Fool – John Riddle remained his secret favourite. It was, after all, his real name. Beaming, he turned and surveyed his expectant crowd, merriment shining in his eyes like the outfit's spangles glinted in the sun.

"Ladies and gentlemen… let us begin."

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**Please review – tell me what you think! ;D**


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